My first post in this splendid blog, back in September, was
about the tribulations of writing a sequel. I had just pressed ‘send’ on a
manuscript which had eaten a huge proportion of my time and energy over
lockdown, and was feeling reflective: would the book live up to its predecessor?
Had I recaptured the voice? Had I repeated myself?
Well, I’m pleased to report that readers can judge for
themselves this week, as Callum and the Other is finally published on
April 15th. The editing and proofing process was painless, thanks to
the fabulous folks at Beaten Track, and generous friends have previewed the
book very positively. Does that mean I’m free of pre-publication collywobbles?
Of course not!
Every Scattered Author must know the strange sense of
letting go that comes with publication. The story is no longer mine – it becomes
the shared property of anyone who takes the time to read it. There are parts I
think are accessible to most readers and parts that will only chime with some.
Ideas that struck me as important may well be completely lost in the mix, while
aspects that never occurred to me might reveal themselves to insightful
readers. It’s a strange and fascinating process, and I’m excited to see where
it goes.
I hadn’t planned to write a sequel, but now I can’t imagine
not having done so. Callum and his friends had more to tell me, and I’m profoundly
grateful for the chance to share the results – I hope they entertain, amuse and
mystify the brave souls who dip in, and that I can be part of the story’s journey
out into the big wide world!
Good luck to everyone with new stories to share this month.
I'm not that bothered by publication days. There. I've said it.
By the time a book is ready to come out I'm usually so sick of the sight of it that the thought of having a party to celebrate it's existence fills me with dread. I mean, I'm not a natural, centre of attention party person anyway - that's why I'm an author - but even without the party, publication day always feels like a bit of an anti-climax.
There are so many little triumphs that seem worthy of celebration, but usually they happen on a rainy Tuesday in the quiet of your shed. I celebrate every time I have an idea that might lead to something else. I celebrate whenever I fill a plot hole with a nifty bit of thinking. I celebrate when I finish the damn thing - boy do I celebrate! I celebrate when I start to see roughs and sketches for art work. I celebrate when I get delivered an advance copy. But publication day? That doesn't feel like it's for me. That feels like it's for my publishers and their Twitter handle.
That's not to say that the celebration is done. I celebrate when I get an email from a kid who's really enjoyed the book. I celebrate every time I do a workshop and feel like I've connected with a class. I celebrate quietly whenever I see my book in a library - remember them? But it's those moments that I value, not the grandeur of publication day. It's maybe why I prefer Christmas Eve to Christmas Day.
Please don't think me churlish or ungrateful, I'm thrilled that my book is out there for all to see and I appreciate the hard work from a whole team of people who have struggled to get it there. But I'm a writer, I celebrate the victories I feel I've earned through doing my job, and by the time publication comes along they're long gone. By the time publication day comes along a year or so after I've finished the thing, that book is history and I'm onto the next and the next and the next.
So publication day always leaves me feeling a little low. My book is out there. Will anyone notice? Does it matter that I've added another to the pile? Maybe, maybe not. But the real buzz, the real sparks happen before and after - it's those I celebrate.
I had been warned. So many people had told me: 'Don't be surprised if at some point on your publication day, you stop and think I'm really unhappy.'
I had been warned, and I was prepared. I spent a large portion of the week in the run up to the publication of my debut novel, utterly miserable. Get into the right frame of mind early, I told myself, then you won't be disappointed on the day. A friend invited me out on a socially distanced walk, where I moaned to her the whole time. When the Whatsapp group I'd set up months previously excitedly asked what our plans were for a Zoom launch party, I half-heartedly passed on the organisation to my husband. I fretted that my best friend had suddenly become less available to chat, now, in my time of need.
In short, I was awful.
The day arrived. I attempted normality: toddler up, milk given, ready for nursery. I was watering the garden when the doorbell rang.
'Something for Holly!' the DPD driver chirped, indicating a flat parcel on the porch. Inside: a silver box, beautifully illustrated. Inside that, an array of chocolates, each one delicately iced with flowers and letters: 'MIDNIGHT'S TWINS BY HOLLY RACE'. The card told me it was from a scriptwriter who I've never met in person. We have been working together remotely since the start of the year, and I was starting to think of her as a friend, but this - this was beyond normal six-month friendship. But she knew how much the book meant to me, and being a writer herself knew how much of one's soul you can pour into your work. I message her effusions. Her response: 'I'm just glad they didn't forget the apostrophe.'
Then my husband approaches. 'You know that parcel from Germany that arrived the other day?'
'The one I teased you about being even more camera equipment you didn't need?' I say.
'Yeah.' He hands the box to me. Inside is a heavy, enamelled pen. Engraved on the lid: today's date. 'For all the book signings you're going to do.'
I'm already welling up a bit, so I cover and show husband my thanks in the form of several badly decorated cupcakes. I'm interrupted in my baking by a socially distanced visit from my parents, who have gently supported my writing hobby since I, aged five, wrote 'The Mirror Girl', about a girl called Holly whose reflection stepped out of the mirror and caused havoc in her name. They bring that story with them now, and hand me an envelope containing a sketch of a horse - horses are an important feature of my book - by a prominent artist.
So many instances of kindness and generosity. I realise, once my parents have left, that I have only felt warm joy today, my anticipated disappointment balmed by my loved ones' excitement.
I spend my afternoon cycling to my nearest friends to give them the aforementioned questionably decorated cupcakes. When I get home we order takeaway and, in anticipation of tonight's Zoom party, I brush my hair for the first time in three days. I like to make an effort.
When the time comes to open Zoom, I am expecting to see a small but lovely gathering of familiar faces. As it happens, not everyone will fit onto our screen. Fifty friends and family members have turned up. It's more people than I've seen in one place since my sixth form leaver's do, let alone since lockdown.
That's when things start to get weird. My tech-savvy husband begins tinkering with the laptop - in itself this is not unusual, but when combined with the expectant silence of my friends, my spidey senses are tingling. Husband presses 'play' and suddenly my best friend's unavailability over the last couple of weeks is explained. He had been making this:
When the video ends, I'm directed towards the doormat. Lying there is a copy of my book, filled with messages from friends and family across the country. Alongside it: a package containing a necklace that appears in Midnight's Twins and an enormous chocolate cake, complete with a fondant copy of my book, decorated in painstaking detail.
Over the course of the next few hours, as I get gradually merrier on elderflower champagne, the logistics of how they did this are explained to me. That walk I took with my friend? Engineered so that my best friend and husband could finish the video. Socially distanced meet ups in a Cambridge park, with friends driving in from the Fens to leave a message in the book. A drive around London, carrying not only the book but hand sanitiser and masks to ensure Coronavirus safety. And so many postcards and messages sent in from further afield to be slotted into the pages. I don't let myself read all the messages in front of my friends, because I know I'll end up a blubbering mess.
Later that night, when everyone else has gone to bed, I open it up and read the messages in private. Half my friends barely read at all, most of them are not particularly interested in young adult stories. This is true friendship, of the kind I never thought I'd have and certainly don't deserve - not if my behaviour over the last week is anything to go by, at least.
Over the next few days, friends visit my garden to help me eat the chocolate cake. The chocolates sent by the writer friend dwindle; iced flowers first, then the ones bearing letters. I put the necklace away, to be worn when I see people or take book-related photos. But nothing will ever replace the gooey knowledge of how my friends and family turned what was set to be an anti-climactic lockdown publication into one of the best days of my life.
You've carried this
strange beast inside of you for far too long. When you first
announced it, you were happy to talk and show off about your new
found authorship. People were happy for you – you seemed happy too,
exuding a kind of care-free 'glow'. People made plans. Big plans.
“We're going to have
a party to celebrate its arrival!” they said. You were pleased, but
now you are not so sure. You just want a quiet time. No fuss, just a
few drinks with friends. If you're not too tired.
But wait. Let's go back
to the beginning. The conception of the thing is a hazy memory; you
had had too much to drink. It seemed like a good idea. At the time.
And so you did the deed
– in a splurge of creativity you made this small 'thing'. Was it a
book? You weren't sure. You needed to check with someone.
You told a few people
about it, and they were enthusiastic too. Word got around and you
went to the big meeting, holding your partner's hand with sweaty
palms. You were nervous. You were excited too, but excitement doesn't
always come with heart palpitations and perspiration. Then the man
behind the desk gives you the news you'd been waiting for. You're
going to be expecting...a new book.
The celebrations begin,
but you still have the gestation period to go. You stare at your
baby, caring for it and gazing at its perfection on the screen. Then
you go for regular check-ups with the editor. This is where they drop
the heart-shattering message:
“Your book is fine,
but...”
But? But what? It's
defected in some way? Underdeveloped?
Nothing a few doses of
redrafting can't fix, the editor says. Phew. Now you get to spend
more time with your baby. Endless nights, tending it and checking it
is okay every five minutes.
Endless. Nights.
Slowly, you begin to
resent the book. You resent it for the amount of time it takes from
you, for the social life it robbed from you. But you love it too.
You love its crinkly edges and imperfections, the way it makes you
feel; how could you not? It came from you, remember?
In the weeks before it
is due to come out, friends will call you.
“Hi! Is it out yet?”
You stare down the
phone. Of course it isn't out yet! You're still waking at nights
thinking about it, drudging around in the daytime in a half-coma. You
would have told someone if it was out yet! You would have told
everyone!
Then the day comes. The
date that had been emblazoned on your brain for months arrives and
your new creation is set free into the world. People congratulate
you! Strangers congratulate you! You feel elated, lighter than you
have done for months. Your baby, the thing you made from nothing, is
now part of the world. You're happy.
You look at it. It's
ugly at first; not what you expected. But God,
you love it, and you will until your dying day.
Dan Metcalf proudly
gave birth to his newest addition, Codebusters, on July 13. It weighs
in at 127 grams and is 144 pages long. You can look at it here
and here.
Dan, being an overly-proud father, has even started posting videos
about it on YouTube.
Don't worry about the yellow cover; that's a design choice, not
jaundice.
Once published, writers often find themselves under pressure to produce
a second book within a certain time frame. This creates conditions under which it
can be difficult to be creative.
In the following interview by Julia Copus, I explain how publication led to a 5-year writing block, and reveal what needed to happen for my creativity to return:
